By mid-day they knew all there was to know about their island. It was pear-shaped, and barely a mile in diameter,—a mere lump of limestone pushed up from the ocean-bed, with a fringe of coral at its base. The cliffs were unbroken save in one place, where some old earthquake had split a jagged fissure in the rock almost down to the sea-level. This little gorge, choked with vegetation, would have contained water had the island been larger; but as it was, they could only find a little moisture oozing from the cliff-face. Some of them climbed the gorge to the plateau above, and saw the narrow light-green circle of the reef edged with foam: saw an island near them, and two or three others so far away that they blended with the clouds, but saw no sign of man, nor any hope of rescue but by their own efforts.
As soon as Benion was brought in, Allen was possessed with a fear of being left alone with him. When the raft was launched, he joined the two men told off to go to the wreck. It was evening before they returned, with scarcely any stores, towing the largest of the ship’s boats, staved and broken, but not beyond repair. At night over the fire they took counsel. To stay for more than a week at this place would mean starvation. The island must be one of the Fiji group, which the captain had supposed to be two hundred miles to the southward. Some of them had heard that there were white men there; and the party that had climbed the cliff had seen the outline of a large island down the wind. There was only one course open to them—to repair the broken boat and set sail. Benion beckoned to Allen from the ivi-tree under which he was lying. The men were some feet away, and they could talk undisturbed.
“Did you bring off the box on the raft?” he asked, eagerly.
“No,” replied Allen; “the cabin was full of water.” Benion started up, forgetting his injury until the pain reminded him. “Good God!” he cried, “it must be there—under my bunk. No one in the ship knew of it but you, and it couldn’t float away. I’ll find it myself to-morrow, even if I smash my ankle looking for it. You seem to take it very calmly,” he added, fiercely; “have you forgotten that your share is in it as well as mine?”
“Forgotten! No; but I am too pleased at having saved my skin to think about it yet.”
“Your skin!” retorted Benion, contemptuously. “What good will your skin be to you if you have nothing to put on or into it? If that box is lost, I would to God I might lie where it lies!”
His distress was so great that Allen felt an almost invincible desire to tell him the truth. But why should he tell him now, in his present state of excitement? How could he explain away the lie that had come so readily to his lips? In his excitement Benion would suspect that he meant to steal the money, and then good-bye to any future hope of assistance. Why, Benion might repudiate all his verbal promises of partnership, and he had no writing to show. And had he not worked harder than Benion at the diggings?—been a hewer of wood and a drawer of water while his partner sat at ease? How was he to be recompensed for all this? And his share was to be so little, while with both shares he might live a new life in some country where they would never meet.
“Was the box fixed under your bunk?” he asked quickly, seeing the other’s eyes fixed inquiringly upon him.